Not the Baker's Son
by TheBunnyWhisperer
Summary: When twelve-year-old Peeta Mellark fed the poor starving girl bread, his mother was furious. Beaten and confused, Peeta was kicked out of his home. Was it luck that he ran into a drunk in Victor's Village? AU, Katniss/Peeta, slight Hayffie
1. Chapter 1

I don't own the Hunger Games or any of the characters in the fanfic. It hurts to say this…

So I'll try to update this often, but I'm in college and super busy. I'll post if I've abandoned anything, though. Until then, assume that I'm just slow.

Title: The Baker's Son

Summary: District 12 is in poverty. A loaf of bread could mean the difference between life and death. So Peeta Mellark doesn't regret giving the poor starving girl burnt bread. His mother, however, was drunk and angry and had no compassion. Bruised and confused, twelve-year-old Peeta runs away from home. Was it luck that he stumbled into a drunk as he hid in Victor's Village?

Characters: Peeta Mellark, Haymitch Abernathy, Katniss Everdeen, Effie Trinket

Planned Chapters: About 30

Rating: Teen

Warnings: AU, Hayffie, Team Peeta

Prologue

Rain poured down, mixing with the ash that coated District 12. The District itself seemed to be weeping. For the loss of all the miners in the recent explosion. For the starving families. For the orphans no one could afford to adopt. For the upcoming Reaping. It seemed that fate hated District 12 and its inhabitants.

Peeta Mellark wasn't stupid, though. He knew that he was lucky. He knew that he shouldn't be thinking such dark thoughts, when he was from the luckier side of District 12. He'd heard people from the other part of the District talking. They called themselves _Seam_, which he didn't understand. But, as he'd learned from his parents, who were bakers and somewhat well-fed, don't question anything.

They'd taught him that lesson a little late, though. Peeta questioned anything and everything, _especially his parents._

Which, he supposed, is what led him up to this point. Hungry and cold, sopping wet, and angry as hell.

Apparently, in his parent's minds, if you see a starving girl, throw things at her until she goes away. And whatever you do, _never_ feed her burnt bread, especially if you burnt the bread on purpose.

So Peeta, being that he questioned everything, hadn't stood and watched as his mother yelled at a poor, starving, _beautiful _girl for looking through their trash can. And Peeta just knew the trash can was empty, by the disappointed, lost, and utterly heartbreaking look on the girl's face a moment before. He couldn't take it. He had to do something, or he would never forgive himself. He glanced out the window after his mother went back to the kitchen.

The girl had collapsed in hunger.

Fully determined and feeling a bit reckless, Peeta had stepped into the kitchen to 'help' his mother. He had taken out the newest batch of bread loaves, and pretended to trip. The loaves fell into the fire before his mother knew what had happened.

"What have you done, you stupid boy?" She yelled at him, giving him a hard slap. He fell into a table, his cheek burning. A knife on the table caused a gash on his arm.

"You dumbass! Now the cakes are bloody!" She shoved him aside and looked down at the food in disgust. "Oh, what will we do now? Do you have any idea how much that grain cost to make those cakes!" She'd rounded on him then. Her hand came down on his face once again. He was beyond relieved that she'd dropped the knife.

"Now we won't make any profit from it!" she screamed. She stormed over to where he was cowering, lifted him by the shirt, and opened the kitchen door into the cold, rainy night.

Something had caught Peeta's eye as she shoved him out the door—a bottle of whiskey. It was empty. _She's only drunk, _he thought to himself, _she'll let me return in the morning. I'll be okay. Maybe she'll be sorry and even give me a bit of cake._

When he hadn't moved out the door yet, so she grabbed him by the hair and shoved him out.

"Go! Get out of my sight and don't come back!" His mother screamed at him in rage, locking the door behind him.

He yelped in pain as he hit the ground, yet something had broken his fall a bit. He glanced down to see that he had been gripping the two loaves tightly. He sighed in relief. Dinner.

A groan came from under a nearby tree. He looked up to see the girl. He remembered that she had collapsed earlier.

He looked longingly at his dinner. Two burnt loaves of bread covered in mud and squashed. They looked delicious. And yet… He looked back at the poor Seam girl, and threw the loaves her way.

She knew more about what it was like to be hungry than he did. As if she hadn't noticed him, she jumped when the bread splashed water onto her. Looking up, she crawled to where the loaves had fallen into a puddle. She ravenously ate one of them in a few bites, as if she hadn't eaten in who knows how long.

_She probably hasn't, _Peeta reminded himself. He noticed that she stared longingly at the second loaf, but hadn't eaten it. He wondered why, but forced himself to turn away. _You have your own problems to deal with, Peeta. Find a place to sleep. Get food. And survive on your own._

His mother obviously didn't want him back. So he was on his own. With that thought, Peeta had stepped away from his home, never to be welcomed back.

He was cold. So cold. What was he sleeping on? Where was his bed?

Where was the scent of cake baking and bread rising and icing that he had always woken up to? Where was his mother screaming at him to wake up because it was time for school?

Peeta quickly sat up, only to hit his head on something hard. He yelped in pain and frustration. Where was he? Why was he there? Why couldn't he see?

His arms flailed in the small space he had woken up in. He tried to turn over and was met with the strange and terrifying sense of gravity shifting around him. Whatever he was inside over began rolling.

His hands covered his mouth as he silently pleaded for his nausea to subside so that he could stop whatever he was inside of.

The surface he was rolling on was bumpy. He hit his head multiple times and had begun to lose hope that he was going to stop. He would die inside whatever was rolling and no one would find him because even he didn't know where he was!

Then everything stopped. He crashed into the side of his prison and yelped in pain. Everything hurt. He was convinced that he had a concussion. He groaned in pain.

Something tapped on whatever he was in. He would've jumped, if he'd been able to move.

"Anybody in there?" came a gravelly, slurring voice. Peeta could smell whiskey. He wrinkled his nose but didn't answer. Maybe the person would go away. Only he didn't want them to go away. He had a strong feeling that the drunk had saved him.

"Come on! I look pretty retarded talking to a barrel!" More tapping, only it was more like banging this time.

So Peeta was trapped in a barrel. And by then he was convinced that the person had saved him.

There was grumbling as the person sighed and began stumbling away. He didn't want the person to leave! They had saved him and he needed to get out of that damn barrel!

"Wait!" he cried out, his voice muffled a bit and sounding helpless.

Shuffling feet. More grumbling.

Then light. Brighter than anything he'd ever seen. He was being dragged by his shirt out of the damn barrel. Dropped unceremoniously on the ground.

He squinted, but even that was too much. He attempted crawling to his feet, but stumbled. He fell back down, onto the fallen barrel. By the time he could actually open his eyes, he looked up at his savior.

His savior turned out to be a man who smelled of alcohol and looked in need of a bath. His dirty blond hair was in his face, and he looked as if he didn't give a crap what anybody thought about him.

The man raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing in Victor's Village?"

Victor's Village. What _was_ he doing there? He tried to remember, but it was hazy.

A starving girl had collapsed. Burnt bread. Angry mother. He was kicked out. He didn't know what had happened to the bread, but that he had been a bit disappointed about it. That night he had wondered the streets and eventually fallen asleep inside of a barrel.

So he drew whatever conclusion he could from his terrible memory.

"I ran away," he told the drunk. He cowered, expecting to be hit or yelled at. He knew the man would take him back to his mother. But she wouldn't want him, so then what would he do? He snuck a peek at the man between arms that shielded his face.

The man was laughing at him. Peeta uncovered his face and dragged himself to his feet, his pride wounded.

"What's so funny?" he challenged the man.

The man didn't answer for a minute; he was too busy laughing. "You!" The man finally exclaimed when he was nearly done.

"Me?" Peeta questioned. "What's so funny about me?" There was a threatening edge to his voice.

The man finally calmed himself. "You think I care about why you were in a barrel."

Peeta was a bit hurt, but he tried to cover it up with hostility. "You asked the question, you old drunk!"

The man paused and looked down as him, his eyes filled with rage. "You don't have any idea what I've been through." Peeta waited to see if he would gop on, but the man didn't seem inclined to keep talking.

Peeta rose to his full height, which still wasn't very tall since he was only twelve. But, to him, it was still very intimidating. "Well, I'm worth a story, aren't I?"

The man didn't spare him a glance as he turned away. "Nope." He began staggering down the street of Victor's Village.

Hurt, Peeta watched the man go. He looked around, as if waiting for someone to invite them into their home and feed him and stitch up his bloody arm and treat his concussion. The street was empty.

So Peeta gathered his courage and ran after the drunk, determined to have someone to talk to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or any of these characters. I'm just borrowing them D:**

**A/N: I'm trying to make the chapters as long as I can, but I'm new to this so I'm still learning about how much detail I should use, etc. So this story is about Peeta running away from home and convincing Haymitch to put up with him. I'm planning on spending a few chapters with Peeta as a twelve-year-old, but then I'll skip to when he enters the 74****th**** Hunger Games. And, of course, there'll be flashbacks to when he and Haymitch hung out or something. :P**

**And suggest ideas for fluffy flashbacks or sad angst or whatever. And, of course, constructive criticism is always welcome! Am I forgetting anything?**

Chapter One

Peeta wrinkled his nose at the sight—no, smell—of Mr. Abernathy's house. He wasn't sure what to think of the man, only that he had to be a drunk for a reason. Peeta believed that everyone had a reason for being the way they were, unlike many people in the Districts. He also believed in tact, though, so he didn't feel the need to pry just yet. Inviting himself into the drunk's house was enough, after all. He was surprised the man had put up with him up to this point, actually. Thinking back, he'd been pretty obnoxious.

After he'd finally caught up to Mr. Abernathy, he'd introduced himself. First name only, of course. He didn't want the man to recognize him and take him back to the bakers. The man hadn't been fooled, though.

"What's your last name, Peter?" the man grunted, ignoring that Peeta had asked his name.

"It's Peeta, Sir. And I would rather not tell you..." Peeta averted his gaze to the street they were standing in the middle of.

The man huffed and began walking away. "You're an idiot, Peter," he called over his shoulder.

Peeta ran to catch up to the man. "It's Peeta. What's your name, again?"

"I never told you it in the first place." The man stumbled but quickly caught himself.

"Well you should! I mean, I told you mine!"

"No, you didn't. You only told me that your first name was Peter—"

"It's Peeta. With an _A_," Peeta corrected, irritated.

"Whatever, Peter," the man slurred. "You won't tell me your last name."

"Are you scared that I'm a serial killer or something? Why would my last name be important?" Peeta snapped.

The man rounded on him, pressing a blade to his throat. When had he been holding a knife?

"Listen, kid. I won the Hunger Games. I know you're too stupid or ignorant to understand what that means, so I'll spell it out for you. I. Murdered. People. Do you really think I would care if you were a serial killer?" With a flick of the man's wrist, the knife was gone and Peeta was staring at him in terror.

"Besides, I know who you are. District 12 is too small to not recognize people. Especially the son of the only two bakers in the District." There was a touch of amusement in the man's voice, a stark contrast to the terrifying whisper he'd spoken in mere moments ago.

"I'm not the bakers' son," Peeta declared, a touch of confusion in his voice. Was he the bakers' son anymore? Running away from—or getting kicked out of, actually—your home usually declares that you don't want anything to do with your family anymore, right? And his family didn't want him anymore, right? So, in everything but blood, he wasn't the son of the bakers. He was an orphan.

The drunk threw his head back and laughed at the statement. "Oh, so what happened? Did your mommy insult a cake you made? Did your daddy forget to buy you a present yesterday? Did you—"

"I gave a starving girl some bread and got kicked out of the house," Peeta interrupted the insufferable drunk.

The drunk stopped laughing and sneered down at him. "Oh, poor you. Let's start a charity. The bakers' kid got in trouble, so he's obviously suffered more than all of us combined." His voice was thick with sarcasm.

Peeta was stunned. What the hell did this drunk have against him? Was he confusing him with someone from the Capitol? He asked the man just that.

The man paused, his features twisted in confusion. "Shit, kid. You're not from the Capitol?" he slurred.

Peeta realized that this man must have been more drunk than he'd assumed. For reasons unknown, this annoyed him.

"No, you old drunk! I'm from District 12! Now what the hell is your name?" he all but screamed at the man, his arms flailing in his menacing twelve-year-old way.

The drunk looked almost amused. Peeta was certain that he could wipe that stupid look off his face with just one punch. "Haymitch Abernathy."

Peeta paused his arm flailing, too caught up in his anger to realize that he'd asked the man's name. "What?"

"It's my name, dumbass." The man didn't look as amused anymore.

"Oh." So what could he yell at the man for now?

Mr. Abernathy, muttering insults under his breath, began stumbling away.

"Wait!" Peeta called. He didn't know why, but he just couldn't be alone. He was lonely and frightened.

Mr. Abernathy stopped walker and turned around. "What?" he snapped, a dangerous edge to his question.

"So, umm... I got kicked out of my house," Peeta began. He felt awkward, not knowing what to say.

"So?" Mr. Abernathy seemed wary of what Peeta would say next. Peeta wondered why. Even he didn't know what he was going to say next, but the drunk seemed to.

He blurted out the first thing that came to mind, much to his terror:

"Can I live with you or something?"

Now, here he was, following an angry drunk into his house. He pretended not to hear the insults Mr. Abernathy was muttering. The man was digging through his fridge for some reason.

"So, uhh, Mr. Abernath—" He was cut off.

"Haymitch."

"Who?"

"Gaddamit, boy! Learn my name! Call me Haymitch. Mr. Abernathy sounds stupid."

Not one to argue with an angry drunk, Peeta complied. "Alright, Haymitch. So what do I do? Is there a guest roo—" He was interrupted again.

"The guest room's upstairs, second door on the right. Now get out of my sight." Haymitch pulled a bottle of spirits out of his fridge. "Go to bed or something."

"It's morning."

"Too bad. You've got a concussion. Go lie down. Oh, and take these for that scratch on your arm." Haymitch rifled through a cabinet, and took out a roll of bandages. He tossed it to Peeta.

Peeta caught the bandages, and began to leave. He paused at the stairs, wondering how the man knew he had a concussion and why he had classified the gash on Peeta's forearm as a scratch. Maybe it was just a scratch, and Peeta wasn't thinking right because of the concussion. Or maybe he just never got injured. Whatever the reason was, Peeta decided to leave the questions for when he woke up. Barrels were terribly uncomfortable to sleep in.

"You want me to _what?_" Haymitch, as Peeta could tell, wasn't pleased. "Didn't we already discuss this?"

"Look, Haymitch." Peeta was determined to get Haymitch to understand why he had requested this. "I've stayed with you for three months now—"

"This could be your last day, if you're not careful," Haymitch growled. They were sitting across from each other at the table in Haymitch's kitchen. The place was slightly cleaner than it had been three months before, but only because Peeta went out of his way to throw away every empty bottle he saw. Haymitch had also gone out of his way to keep his house at dirty as possible. It was a never ending circle; for every bottle Haymitch threw in rage, Peeta picked one up. For every bottle Peeta picked up, Haymitch dropped one on the ground. Neither were willing to give up.

In the three months that had passed, Peeta had been to his first Reaping where his name could have been called. Haymitch had left to mentor the poor Tributes of that year's Hunger Games, leaving Peeta alone for two weeks and Haymitch extra drunk for a month after. Peeta's parents had seen him exactly twice, never acknowledging him or sparing him a glance. He didn't regret being kicked out of his old home.

"What's so bad about it? Look, I won't even change my name to Abernathy." Peeta was lying, and they both knew it. He didn't want there to be any confusion when he started school again in the fall. And, of course, he didn't want anyone to refer to him as Peeta Mellark ever again. It infuriated him.

"I'm not going to adopt you."

"But why not?" Peeta whined.

"Because they won't let me! Your parents haven't technically disowned you yet and who would let a drunk adopt a kid?" Haymitch explained; Peeta could tell that he was getting angry. Peeta didn't blame Haymitch, though, since he'd brought this up every day for the past week. If Peeta was anything, it was persistent.

"There's another reason that you're not telling me," Peeta said. It wasn't a question.

Haymitch sighed wearily. "Look, Peeta. If I adopt you they'll make it more likely that you'll be chosen as a Tribute in the Hunger Games."

Peeta stood up in anger. "Why? Why would they make you do that?"

Haymitch grabbed his shirt and pulled him back down to his seat. "Because it's the Capitol's way of making the Victors suffer."

Peeta was still confused and slightly infuriated. He didn't stand up, though. "Why would they want to make you suffer?"

"We're an example. Those who escape the Hunger Games still suffer. Everyone who has anything to do with the Games suffers, whether they're killed during the Games, escorts, or stylists. No one pays for it more than the Victors, though. Their children are screwed, their loved ones' lives are threatened if not outright killed, and everything they ever cared about is taken from them. On top of that, they're forced to mentor Tributes from their District every year and watch them die." Peeta knew that Haymitch was speaking from experience and wasn't even trying to hide it.

Peeta's voice lowered in suspicion. "Do you ever wish that you hadn't won?"

Haymitch didn't answer the question directly. "Nothing I can do about it now. Now go away; you're too nosy."

**A/N: So was that long enough? Is Haymitch too open? Is Peeta too OOC? Please review and tell me what you liked or disliked!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or any of its characters, sadly. Maybe if Suzanne Collins had a sudden change of heart and decided to take pity on a sad broke girl...;)**

**A/N: I got five reviews! This is totally a big deal to me so thank you guys! God, I'm pathetic X'D**

**I love you guys! Constructive criticism is always welcome, and flames will be laughed at. I was definitely not born with any writing skills what-so-ever. I'm a better artist, but I want to be a writer one day so I'll just have to get better with practice! Also, Peeta's hard to write, since I don't understand his character very well. **

**So this is a super fun challenge for me! **

**Oh, and if you have any suggestions for any angst or fluff or anything, whether it's a flashback or what, please tell me! **

**Also, does anybody know how to put a break between 'scenes'? When I try to, it doesn't show up on .**

**Chapter Two-**

"Hey, kid! Get the hell up!"

Peeta grunted and rolled over. He didn't want to wake up. He didn't want to go to the Reaping. He didn't want to see who Haymitch would feel sorry for this year. Peeta wasn't a pessimist, but he knew as much as anyone that nobody ever came out of the Hunger Games the same as they'd been before. Hell, he'd met some of the Victors. One had taken him in when he was twelve.

So now, age sixteen, Peeta Mellark did _not _want to go to the Reaping. Especially since he had a higher chance than anyone else of becoming a Tribute.

Peeta was, unofficially, the adopted son of Haymitch Abernathy. Just without the adoption. Everybody in District 12 seemed to know, somehow. Maybe it was the ridiculous amount of alcohol that Peeta bought weekly at the Hob. Maybe there really were hidden cameras everywhere. Haymitch had said that maybe it was just impossible to keep secrets in a District as small as 12. Neither of them ever bothered to correct any of the citizens of District 12.

"Kid! Get the hell up! Don't you have ears?" Haymitch was drunk again. Not a big surprise in itself, despite the early hour.

Peeta grunted and propped himself up on his elbow. "I'm coming!" He fought to keep the edge out of his voice. Today was one of the worst days of the year for Haymitch, so he might as well not make it worse.

He decided to just get the day over with. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he stood up and began to get dressed.

Oh, how he hated the Reaping. He couldn't stand watching the children cry and the eighteen-year-olds comfort their parents and pretend that they weren't about to die. He had nearly volunteered during a particularly heartbreaking Reaping when he was fourteen. The poor boy wasn't very smart; maybe he was a bit mad. His mother had been held back by peace keepers when the boy died within the first few minutes of the Games.

Peeta hated the Reapings almost as much as the Games themselves. And he hated the Games almost as much as he hated the Capitol.

That was probably one of the only things he and Haymitch had in common. While Haymitch was angry and rude, Peeta was calm and charismatic. Haymitch was a pessimist and seemed to hate the world—which he probably did—but Peeta went out of his way to see the good in people. Haymitch had mentioned to Peeta once that that was his fatal flaw, and what would get him killed in the Hunger Games. Peeta didn't take offense, though. Haymitch had meant it as advice.

He stepped out of his room, dressed in simple pants and a collared shirt. Haymitch had never cared what he wore to the Reapings, but Peeta hadn't wanted to look too different than the rest of the boys in his District. He already got enough glares from everyone who wasn't Seam just for knowing Haymitch.

He could smell the fresh booze from the stairs. Of course, the house always smelled of alcohol, but it was usually stale. Peeta could always tell when Haymitch was extra drunk by how strong the smell of fresh alcohol was. That morning, Haymitch was very, very drunk.

Peeta stepped into the kitchen. Haymitch was dressed in his usual tattered clothes, and the stench of alcohol surrounded him. Peeta didn't bother trying to make him presentable anymore, so he just left him alone during the Reaping.

He began picking up empty bottles and depositing in the trash, not starting a conversation. Haymitch was cursing at the Capitol, stumbling around the kitchen in a rage. Nothing was broken, so Peeta wasn't worried.

Haymitch suddenly stopped ranting, and looked directly at Peeta.

"Hey, Peeta," the man slurred.

Peeta looked up from the tabletop he was cleaning. "Yeah, Haymitch?"

"How many times is your name in there, kid? And don't try to lie; I don't care how good you are at it, you still can't fool me." Haymitch was staring at him dramatically, as if he was trying to read his mind. Peeta fought to hide his amusement.

"Eight times," Peeta told him, keeping a straight face.

Haymitch glared at him and threw his empty bottle behind him, not turning to see where it landed. "You're lying, kid."

Peeta sighed. "Alright, eleven. When I was twelve the bread oven broke, so my mother made me put my name in a few extra times so that they could spend more money on a new oven and less on feeding me."

Haymitch studied Peeta for a while, making Peeta shift from foot to foot uncomfortably. Finally, Haymitch said, as if to himself, "It could be worse. Much worse... But still, be careful, kid. They could have doubled—no, tripled it, since they think I adopted you."

"Yeah, yeah, Haymitch. I know," Peeta muttered. They'd had this conversation numerous times before.

"And if anyone mentions—" Peeta interrupted Haymitch, finishing the thought.

"That you adopted me or anything of that sort, pretend I didn't hear them. Whether they're talking to me or not. Anything else?"

Haymitch paused, looking irritated that Peeta had finished his sentence. He apparently decided to let it slide, though, since he didn't bring it up. "Just be careful. I won't see you for another few weeks after the Reaping, if the odds are in your favor."

"And if they aren't?"

Haymitch didn't need to respond; they both knew the answer. Instead, he took another swig of his spirits.

Peeta stood in the rows of boys his age, looking around for somebody. Ah, there she was.

Katniss Everdeen. Her dark hair was in its signature braid, her beautiful silver eyes glaring daggers at Effie Trinket, the perky escort for the District 12 tributes. She was beautiful and perfect and just amazing.

Peeta was in love with her.

Of course, the feelings weren't returned. Katniss and her friend Gale had a thing and everybody knew it. Everybody except for Katniss, it seemed. Peeta didn't know if she loved Gale, but he _knew_ that Gale loved her. In was in his eyes every time he looked at her.

Peeta could recognize the look because he had the same look in his eyes when anybody mentioned Katniss, which wasn't very often since she was only popular at the Hob. He made it a habit to avoid the Hob whenever he could, since the people there didn't seem to like him because he was raised in the town, rather than the Seam like the rest of them were.

There was a lot of noise coming from the stage. Peeta craned his neck to see it better. Haymitch had reached the stage, and had trip over his own feet. A few peace keepers were trying to help him up, but he'd pushed them away and gotten up by himself. Effie Trinket began speaking to take the attention off of Haymitch. It was pretty funny how much Effie hated Haymitch.

After the usual speech about why we have the hunger Games and how much of an honor it is to be a Tribute, etc., Effie walked over to the girls' names. The entire District seemed to hold its breath.

_Please not Katniss. Please, please not Katniss. Anyone but Katniss..._

She delicately stuck her hand in, and spent much too long searching for just the right piece of paper. Finally, she pulled out a name and read it aloud:

"Primrose Everdeen!"

Peeta's heart stopped. Prim was Katniss' sister. Katniss would be heartbroken.

Peeta needs to do something. Now. He needs to help Prim and Katniss. He needs to—

There was a commotion. Peace keepers were running out to hold Katniss back. This wasn't an unusual occurrence.

"I volunteer!" Katniss screamed at Effie.

That, however, was very unusual.

The entire District fell silent. Someone had volunteered for the Hunger Games.

Someone from _District 12_ had volunteered for the Hunger Games.

That had never happened before.

Then Prim was screaming for Katniss to stop. Katniss was hugging her and Gale had run out to carry poor Prim away from the stage.

"Congratulations Miss..." Effie trailed off.

"Katniss Everdeen." Katniss was stone still. She looked terrified. Peeta would give anything to run up on stage and comfort her, but Effie would probably confuse that with volunteering.

"Well congratulations Katniss Everdeen, on being the first volunteer District 12 has ever seen!" Effie paused, as if waiting for applause. There was none.

Peeta didn't know who started it. He actually didn't think anyone did, but that everyone in District 12 had done it at the exact same time.

Pressing three fingers to his lips, he, along with most of the District, saluted Katniss for saving her sister.

Then the trance was over. Effie, slightly confused and not knowing what the salute meant, began speaking again. She walked merrily over to the boys' names, and dramatically pulled a slip of paper out.

Peeta held his breath and began praying to no god in particular.

_Please, please, please don't be me. I can't die. I refuse to die. It can't be me... Please..._

"Peeta Mellark!"

There was a collective sigh from the boys. Then realization struck most of them. Peeta was popular. Peeta was going to die.

The boys around him all turned to him, silently parting. Sending him off to his death.

This wasn't happening. Peeta was dreaming. He would wake up soon.

His legs weren't working properly. It wasn't until Effie called his name again that he knew this was real. He didn't want to be able to walk.

He would die within the next few weeks. He was terrified.

One foot in front of the other. And again. All the way to the stage. Then up the steps.

Now Effie's turning him to face the crowd.

He can smell booze, and realizes that Haymitch is on the stage, too.

Haymitch. What would his reaction be? Would he blame himself? Would he make a scene?

He chanced turning slightly to see Haymitch out of the corner of his eye. He was fuming silently. The bottle he'd been holding shattered, leaving his hand bloody and dripping with alcohol. Haymitch was beyond pissed.

Peeta silently turned back to the crowd. He could see Prim with Gale, sobbing into his shoulder. He couldn't see the bakers, and frankly, he didn't want to. Peeta didn't hate anyone, but if there were anybody that he came close to hating, it was the bakers.

With the Tributes chosen and the speech given, Effie dragged Katniss and Peeta off the stage and into the justice building. They moved quickly, and the next thing Peeta knew, he was alone in an empty room, aside from two chairs. He wondered if anybody had ever attempted suicide, and that was why they left the rooms empty.

The door opened and Haymitch stumbled in, his hand still bleeding freely. He sat down in the unoccupied chair and broke the silence.

"What I wouldn't give for a drink."

Peeta grunted in agreement. He couldn't tell whether he wanted to be left alone or to cry on somebody's shoulder. But he knew that he really didn't feel like having a conversation.

Haymitch was talking again. Peeta had to remind himself to listen.

"—have a token?" Haymitch asked.

Peeta shook his head no.

Haymitch sighed and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a gold bangle and tossed it to Peeta without a word. Upon closer inspection, there was a flame pattern on the bangle.

"Consider it a loan," Haymitch huffed. "When you get back from the Games, you can return it to me." He stood up and held his hand out to Peeta. Peeta grasped it and Haymitch pulled him to his feet. They began walking to the door, albeit reluctantly.

They were at the door when Peeta stopped.

"Haymitch."

Haymitch turned to him. "Yeah?"

"Thanks. For everything," Peeta began. "I mean—"

Haymitch cut him off, "Don't start with last words and stuff. I'm still your mentor, and you're not going to die."

With that, the left the room in silence.

Peeta was determined to win the Hunger Games.

Because, in the Games, you either win or die trying.

**A/N: So how did you like it? Was Haymitch more in character? Was Peeta OOC? Please review! **


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. **

**A/N: I wrote about half of this chapter on the same day as the previous one, out of sheer boredom. I also feel kinda depressed today and just want to cry, so maybe this will take my mind off of it. On top of that, I'm major tired, so it's hard concentrating on anything but feeling sorry for myself. I'm sorry if this sucks. And I know that you probably don't want to hear about my problems.**

**But, on the bright side, I write a lot better when I'm angry. At least, I hope so. Tell me if this chapter repeats things too much or has too many rants. Or just sucks. I don't really care about flames; they just help me know what people feel about my stories.**

**I also can't remember much from the first book about what happened between the Reaping and the Games. Sadly, I loaned the first two books to a friend so I don't have much to help me. I'm trying to look this up on the internet so that it won't be totally off.**

**So yeah, you probably don't want to hear me talk anymore, so here's the next chapter.**

**Chapter Three-**

The fear of dying had overwhelmed Peeta. He needed to do something. He needed to throw something. He needed to yell and scream and tell Effie just how _annoying _she was when she rambled on and on about this new stupid trend in the Capitol. He wanted to yell at her about how he just didn't _care_ just how great tye-dyed—whatever that was—leather belts looked with dark orange hats this time of year!

Haymitch was muttering to himself angrily in the darkest corner—which wasn't very dark considering how much Capitol citizens just _loved_ bright lights. Aside from the quiet ranting to himself, Haymitch was mostly quiet. Peeta couldn't tell whether Haymitch was angry because he'd been reaped, or because it was just the Games. He didn't want to be arrogant, but he found himself almost hoping that Haymitch cared that much about him.

Katniss seemed to be sizing up Peeta and Haymitch. It was rather unnerving, actually. Maybe she was deciding how much he and Haymitch would be of worth to her. Peeta had loved Katniss for years, and he knew that Katniss was a survivor. She wasn't selfish or anything; she just had people who needed her. Peeta supposed that that was just one more reason why he loved her. And yet, her silver eyes looked as if they were reading his mind.

She seemed to realize that he was staring back at her, and they both broke eye contact.

_Smooth, Peeta, _he thought to himself. There was enough tension in the room to cut it with a knife.

Peeta was terrified. He had survived the Reaping for six years, and had never been chosen. So he had become a bit less worried about the Reaping. After all, he had had terrific luck up to that point. So, when he had actually been reaped, it was like a living nightmare.

He was going to die. Just as he had begun to actually believe that the odds were in his favor, his name had been called. He was terrified.

Effie still hadn't shut up. Peeta honestly didn't give a damn about what she was talking about, and yet, seeing how the other two in the room weren't bothering to hide their contempt for the woman's ignorance, he pretended to listen avidly.

Peeta was going to die. He was sure of it. He didn't care that Haymitch had taught him how to use a knife to kill in twelve different ways, 'just in case'; the Career Tributes were bound to be better than him. Katniss, however, had a fair chance of winning. Maybe if Peeta could help get her into a pact with the Careers, she would make it back home. That was all he asked for: Katniss' survival. She was much more important than he was, after all. And, from what he had seen of her, she and Haymitch were very alike. They could keep each other company after he died, and Katniss had won the Games.

Peeta wasn't going to lie to himself, though. He didn't have the heart to kill and he knew it. He only had one wish: to keep the girl he loved alive. He would willingly give his life for that. How he would survive long enough to protect her, though, he didn't know.

Of course, he didn't want to die. He would try to postpone it as long as he could. Then, when it came down to him and Katniss, he would kill himself and leave her as the Victor of the 74th Hunger Games. It wasn't the best plan, but hopefully it would be enough to keep Katniss alive. That was all he asked for. That was his only wish. He just hoped it would be enough.

Something caught Peeta's attention. Had Effie said something strange? He searched his recent memory, but came up with nothing. Then he realized what it was that had broken him out of his trance. Effie wasn't talking any more. She was staring at him. Was she glaring?

Once she knew she had his attention, she began to scold him for not listening to her.

"I'll have you know that it is _terrible_ manners to not listen when someone is speaking, especially when they're speaking directly to you!" Effie was annoying him, but Peeta wasn't a bad guy. He didn't want to be rude, unlike Haymitch and Katniss, who had left the room at that point. "This amount of rudeness from all of you is just intolerable! Why, I remember—" Peeta cut her off.

"Look, I'm sorry, Effie," Peeta apologized. He needed to smooth talk his way out of having to listen to her. He was good at that. He racked his mind for anything nice to say, from her shoes to how interesting her story was. He came up with nothing, so he just decided to go with the eternal 'I'm just tired' excuse. "I was up all night thinking about today. I mean, imagine how busy we're going to be from now until the Games!"

Effie was nodding in agreement. He had her right where he wanted her. Oh, he was brilliant with words.

"So, we should all probably get to bed, right?" he suggested, hinting to the other two inhabitants of the room. There was no reply, so he looked around. Haymitch and Katniss had left unnoticed. Damn them.

"Err, I guess just me, then," Peeta muttered sheepishly, looking back at Effie. He fought the urge to scratch the back of his neck nervously.

Effie, though, was still caught up in his statement about how busy they would be. "Yes, yes, go to bed! Tomorrow will be a big, big day!" She stood up, looking prepared to push him out the door and drag him to his room.

"Alright, Effie, if you insist," he chuckled, stepping out the door. He had to find Haymitch, and he knew exactly where to look.

XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX

Peeta sat down on the bar stood next to Haymitch. They were in the bar car on the train. It was strange that there was an entire bar on the train, once Peeta thought about it. There weren't many people on the train, and the tributes were all too busy having breakdowns or preparing or—in the Careers' cases— pacing in excitement to even think about alcohol. Peeta assumed that there had to be some reason for it, though, so he let it slide.

"What?" Haymitch grunted. Peeta didn't answer, waiting for Haymitch to actually listen to him.

And he didn't have to wait long. Haymitch, not putting down his bottle, turned toward him and leaned against the bar.

"Can't you see I'm trying to drown my sorrows? Just leave me alone, kid."

Peeta wasn't buying it. He needed Haymitch's help in the Games, and he wasn't going to leave him alone until he agreed to try.

"I'm a Tribute this year. Can't you at least act sober?" Peeta began his rant, but Haymitch held up a hand, stopping him.

"You think I don't realize that you're a Tribute? Why the hell do you think I'm drinking tonight? Now go to bed! It's way too late for you to be awake!" Haymitch tried to shove him out of his seat, but he was much more drunk than he realized. It was more of a weak hit than a shove.

"It's only nine," Peeta told him. "Come up with a better excuse to kick me out of here."

"I'm your mentor so you have to do what I say?"

"Try harder."

"I've been your informal guardian since you were twelve, so go away!" Haymitch was close to yelling, yet Peeta was unfazed.

"Nope. Not until you agree to lay off the spirits until the Games are over." Peeta crossed his arms over his chest to get across how stubborn he intended to be.

"No—" Peeta cut Haymitch off, a bit childishly.

"But you need to help us, Hay—"

"Shut up and listing to me, Peeta!" That caught his attention. Haymitch was serious. "Like I was saying, I'm not going to 'lay off the spirits', but I will stay sober enough to help you and the girl."

"Katniss," Peeta corrected him.

"What?" Haymitch looked very confused.

"Her name. The other Tribute's name is Katniss," he explained.

"Oh. Well, I'm sure she doesn't matter anyway. She won't last a chan—"

"She will too!" Angry, Peeta had stood up. Haymitch, without knowing it, had just insulted the girl he loved. "She's going to win and she's a genius with a bow and she's brilliant! She knows more than I do about survival and she knows what she's doing!" He sat back down, seething quietly. He didn't regret his outburst.

Haymitch was silent. He seemed to be studying Peeta's expression, his eyes narrowed. Finally, he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and asked for another bottle.

"I must be more drunk than I thought," Haymitch muttered. Taking the spirits offered to him, he looked Peeta in the eye. "Did you just say that she would win the Hunger Games? As in, you aren't planning on winning?"

Peeta gulped and stammered, "Y-Yes."

Haymitch sighed again. "Crap. You love her." He took Peeta's silence for a yes and continued, "You know that you can't both win, right? There's no chance in hell of it."

"Well, yeah. That's why I want her to win." Peeta was confused. He had never even considered _both_ of them winning. Why would he?

"So how are you planning on getting her to win?" He held up a hand to stop Peeta's reply. "And just killing everyone but her isn't going to happen. Even the Careers aren't that good, and they've been training for years. Surviving the Games takes more than skill. You need sponsors, good weapons—which you can only find in the Cornucopia, and neither of you are going near that—and maybe allies. Also, she's not going to win."

She wasn't going to win? Did Haymitch not believe him when he said that Katniss was great with a bow and could survive in the Games? Did Haymitch just not like her? No, that would be a terrible excuse for letting someone die.

Peeta couldn't come up with a good reply, so he just asked, "Why won't she?"

Haymitch took a long swig of his spirits, then slammed the bottle on the table and looked Peeta in the eye. "Because _you're _going to win. Whether you want to or not."

He didn't want to win, though. Why wouldn't Haymitch just let him give his life for Katniss? Peeta could figure out a plan, right? Wouldn't he do whatever it took to keep her alive? Why wouldn't Haymitch let him? He would get her sponsors and allies and _make_ the Capitol citizens notice her. But how?

"How will I get us sponsors?" Peeta asked suddenly.

Haymitch looked up from his spirits, seemingly surprised that Peeta was still there. "What?"

Peeta rubbed his forehead weakly, the stress of what he was going to do getting to him. "How will I get us sponsors?" he repeated. He needed to drag himself through this. He needed to help Katniss. He needed to survive as long as he could for Katniss.

Haymitch didn't answer for a moment, as if he was trying to come up with a good answer. "Well, you give them a show."

Give them a show? What did he mean by that? Haymitch didn't expect him to start dancing in front of the Capitol, did he? His expression must have given away his confusion, because Haymitch explained his answer.

"You love her, right?" Peeta nodded without hesitation. "Then confess that to Caesar Flickerman when he interviews you. That'll get everybody's attention. The Capitol won't be able to get enough of it. They'll love it, and both of you will get sponsors."

Peeta considered this. It was brilliant, without a doubt, but what would Katniss say? Of course, he would be the last to be interviewed, so she couldn't admit to Caesar that it was a lie. It would get them both sponsors, and sponsors would help keep Katniss alive...

"I'll do it. But what if Katniss gets mad? What if she—" Haymitch interrupted him.

"It will keep you both alive. You're a good liar, too, so that won't be an issue." He trailed off, apparently thinking. Peeta could almost see the wheels turning in his head. "Of course, the Gamemakers might try to use it against you in the Games, but I can't see that happening unless it's a trap for one of you to save the other. If that happens, though, there won't be any chance of either of you getting out alive..." He trailed off again.

Peeta couldn't see where he was going with this. Realizing that the Gamemakers would use Katniss against him or vice versa, it sounded like a terrible plan. What was Haymitch thinking, suggesting a plan with risks like that?

Haymitch began speaking again, "They wouldn't do that, though. There would be no chance of either of you surviving a trap like that, and they want you have a bit of hope that you might win the Games. So, no, that won't happen. Forget I said that." Haymitch took another swig, but his bottle was empty. He asked for another one.

The plan was brilliant. Peeta was a bit mad at Haymitch for bringing up something like that when it wouldn't happen, but he wasn't one to hold grudges.

"So we'll go with that plan?" Peeta asked.

Haymitch grunted in confirmation. "Now go, leave me alone to drown my sorrows."

Peeta nodded, pleased, and bid Haymitch goodnight. He stood from his barstool and made for the exit.

He had a plan, and despite knowing that it involved him dying, he was pleased. Of course, knowing the Hunger Games, it wouldn't last for long. He savored the feeling, though. For all he knew, it might be the last time he felt somewhat confident.

He was going to die within the next three weeks, after all.

**A/N: So how was it? Writing this put me in a much better mood than before :D**

**I'm a bit more proud of this chapter than the others, since they seem more in character to me. What do you think? Where they OOC? Was it too short? There was a lot of dialogue, though. Did you like that or no? Sorry about the lack of action.** **Any suggestions about flashbacks or anything else? Should Katniss be jealous about Peeta and Haymitch already knowing each other? How should Peeta fix that?**

**So please, please review! I don't care about flames; they just show me one more opinion about my story. Constructive criticism is always welcome! **

**I want to get to ten reviews before the next chapter. It's only three more, so how hard could it be?**


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